


let me try (with pleasured hands)

by fwop



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Allusions To Childhood Non-Con, Blood and Violence, Bounty Hunters, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Getting to Know Each Other, Hanzo is Shiro, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Instant Attraction, Jesse is Joel Morricone, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Road Trips, Romantic Comedy, Sojiro Shimada's Bad Parenting, Switch Hanzo Shimada, Switch Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fwop/pseuds/fwop
Summary: In the Southwestern United States, Hanzo starts another long night with a glass of liquor. In the path ahead of him, there are a handful of names left on his 'To Kill' list before he can truly begin to restore his honor, to meet with Genji at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. He isn't expecting on meeting an attractive cowboy by the name of Joel Morricone, nor to accept his offer to travel together to finish off both of their respective lists.It might be the best choice he's ever made.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	let me try (with pleasured hands)

**Author's Note:**

> [Reinhardt voice] H E L L O! 
> 
> So... just got into Overwatch earlier this year (Moira main here) and finally started reading McHanzo a few months back. It's such an amazing ship and there are some gorgeous works out there. What an honor it's been to read such lovely things. Honestly, it's the only thing that's been getting me through 2020! (Anyone else done with this hellscape of a year?) 
> 
> It's been interesting trying to figure out my own voice for Hanzo and Jesse. I hope I can do them some justice. Obviously, this is my first foray into this fandom! I'm inexplicably nervous about it!

There are days when Hanzo appreciates the opportunities given to him by his rather unconventional upbringing. 

Trained from birth, there is nigh a situation that he is unprepared for. If it was meant to be learned, it was expected of Hanzo to become intimately familiar with whatever the subject. Sometimes the topics had seemed… daunting, especially when he was a child. Yet, the older he became, the less he thought about something when it was asked of him (something he still deeply regrets the longer he is away from the influence of a clan that he knows-- now-- only saw him as their unthinking, uncaring tool). 

(He played his part well.)

Hanzo knows how to use all manner of weapons-- guns, bows, swords, knives-- knows how to care for them and how to dispose of them when they’re no longer useful, how to eschew the rules of them to make them work in whatever way he needs them to. His father taught him how to speak to men without saying much, how to lure them into a false sense of security, how to bend them to his will. His mother taught him how to detach himself from his thoughts and his feelings in times of crisis. She taught him how to sit outside his mind, how to turn off completely, to withstand certain tortures. 

He was taught how to cook, how to bake, how to mix a stiff drink, how to clean blood from all sorts of expensive fabrics. Books had been forced upon him, etiquette instilled in him, and unwanted hands had shown him exactly where to touch a person to make them forget about anything but their own wanton desire. 

There is not much the _Shimada-gumi_ had not thought to prepare Hanzo for. At times, he hadn't felt much of anything but the insistent desire to _do better_ , to be what was expected of him (and more)-- his whole entire personality etched into him like the details of a stone statue-- because his father's praises were few and far between, but they had made Hanzo feel like he was doing something right. Anything _to_ feel (something other than the overwhelming sense that he was drowning in the darkest of waters), especially as Genji became more rebellious and left Hanzo behind in his confinement. 

What they (his _family)_ had done to him, as he knows _now_ (always in hindsight) _,_ was unorthodox. When he was growing up, he thought it normal. But when he’d asked Genji, on his own 19th birthday, which subject bothered him the most to learn, Genji had shrugged and said, “Math.” Then Genji asked him which one Hanzo hated the most, and Hanzo had wrinkled his nose and said, flatly, “Desensitizing my gag reflex.” 

When Genji had asked him what the Hell that meant, Hanzo had explained but the dawning look of horror on Genji’s face as he did was damning enough. His brother had _not_ been learning the things that he himself had been learning all this time. Or _he had,_ but the learning had been entirely of his own desire and born of a specific want. Genji got to _choose_ his partners and follow his own base urges, not have them worked into a learning schedule with people he hardly knew (or worse, people he _did)_. 

Hanzo had known, abstractly, that the way they were raised was not the same (even though Genji had tried his level best, in his earlier years, to intrude upon Hanzo’s time whenever he was able). The discrepancies between punishments and allowances had been proof enough, but hearing it from Genji’s mouth had left Hanzo feeling uncomfortable and, somehow, embarrassed. He should have felt _honored._ Instead, he felt like a rubber band stretched out just a bit too far. 

As Hanzo steps into the dingy, hazy scene of this middle-of-nowhere excuse for a bar, he finds it _hilarious_ that, despite _all_ that investment in his studies, there had been nothing to make him ready to deal with his own complicated emotions when actually faced with them. Part of his penance but _still_ pleasing in its own convoluted way, given the _waste._

Now that Hanzo understands the full scope of what the _Shimada-gumi_ had in plan for him, it (being his disastrous lack of emotional accommodation) had probably been because Hanzo wasn’t supposed to ever _have_ to deal with his own complicated emotions. They had tried to rip sentiment right out of him. They had almost succeeded. Genji had _been_ that sentiment-- the very last thread-- and removing him had unraveled Hanzo completely. The clan had _no_ clue what hit them when he shattered. 

But, here, yes-- the bar. 

… He is here to get smashed. 

He’s honest enough with himself that he can admit he has no idea how to get his brain to quiet down unless it’s getting absolutely piss drunk (meditation requires too much time to ruminate). A weakness, he knows, but it’s why he chose… this place. Far enough out of the way that no one should be able to find him (they taught him a little _too_ well how to lose someone, how to melt back into the shadows when too many eyes are looking), and it’s so hideous that no Shimada member would be found here in the first place. Ever.

Hanzo _loves_ it, as much as one can love any temporary haunt, if only for that sole fact. 

There’s a handful of people and a half hanging out by the pool tables-- most likely who the rows of bikes out front belong to. They’re _almost_ drowning out the croon of a country song. A smattering of solo folks are dotting the bar, nursing drinks and chasing heartaches away at the bottom of a glass. Genji would laugh and laugh at the path of Hanzo’s thoughts, feeling kindred with these pathetic souls. 

Hanzo used to be _so_ proud, so driven by honor. Honor is still important to him-- without it, he doesn’t know what there is left to strive for-- but he can’t deny that things that used to matter, in that respect, matter no longer. 

Just last week, he’d almost fought a civilian for the last piece of strawberry cake in the display case. The only reason he hadn't thrown down in the middle of a working-class, suburban bakery is because the owner had felt the tension brewing and had mentioned having a full cake in the back. Hanzo had looked his opponent dead in the eye when he'd announced he would be buying the whole thing.

Surely when he was younger, that wouldn’t have mattered. He wouldn’t have even _glanced_ inside the damn bakery. He would have denied himself the simple pleasure of a comfort food because it didn’t fit into his schedule, wasn’t approved by the clan to be a part of his diet. 

How foolish he has been. 

He's sure Genji would laugh at a lot of things Hanzo has and has not done in their decade apart. Or… maybe he wouldn't. The cyborg who had approached him had been so _unlike_ his brother that, at first, Hanzo had spent months in denial. 

It’s like walking through smog, cigarette and cigar smoke lingering in the air as he makes his way to the bar counter, setting his “guitar” bag at his feet as he straddles a rickety stool. The bartender, a balding man wearing a heavy mustache over his mouth and a button up that hugs his beer belly a little too snug above his denim, greets him with a grunt. 

His whiskey neat is presented to him without ceremony in a glass tumbler. He grunts back at the bartender in thanks and takes a good gulp. 

Enjoying himself is not the reason he’s here, so there’s no time to savor the smell or chew on the flavor. He just wants to get drunk. The liquor burns on the way down, makes his eyes water with the bite of it. 

Damn, he misses _sake._

The obnoxious group in the corner bursts into laughter as someone falls over-- a woman lifts her empty glass in victory, swirling her hips in an impromptu dance.

He wonders if Genji had ever passed out when participating in drinking games. Considering the enhancements the dragons give to them both, he would’ve had to imbibe a _serious_ amount to lose consciousness. Though they _can_ get drunk, which Hanzo is more grateful for now than ever, it takes a lot more than what is deemed average to get them there. Hanzo had peeled Genji off the floor of a club more times than he can remember, but not because of alcohol. Genji’s preferred method of escape had been drugs (the very ones the _Shimada-gumi_ dealt in)... or sex. 

Hanzo had only partaken in _sake_ with his _oyabun--_ his father. The first time he’d tasted it after his father’s death had also been after _Genji’s_ death, approximately six months after leaving the _Shimada-gumi_ . He had thrown it up the _entire_ morning after, and had hoped, secretly, that if he hadn’t poisoned himself, maybe the dehydration might kill him. 

What happened instead was: he’d picked himself off the dirty bathroom floor and drank water straight from the tap, passed out until an unexpected noise woke him, then killed the assassin trying to kill _him._ It hadn’t been the first since his attempted massacre on the _Shimada-gumi_ (and subsequent self-imposed exile), but it was the first one that had surprised him. 

He shakes his head like it will dispel the thoughts clamoring around in there like the projectiles of a scatter arrow. He didn’t come here to think about Genji, he came here to _forget_ about Genji. Hopefully, also, to forget about _everything._

Hanzo can hear the front door opening again from where he sits, though just barely. Loud Biker Group has devolved into an awful sing-a-long to the tune streaming out from the old-fashioned jukebox lodged against a dingy wall. Feet stomp at the floor, hands clap, and laughter forces its way through the warbling. There’s a clink of glass from Hanzo’s 7 o’clock, where someone has set their beer down a little too hard. 

Hanzo finishes off his drink. 

After a heavy pause, like the person at the door had been assessing what they’d just walked into, a jangling sound accompanies a set of heavy footsteps, and the smell of cigar spice, gunpowder, dirt and sweat precedes the stranger. It’s not an unpleasant smell at all, even to Hanzo's heightened olfactory senses-- another "gift", courtesy of housing two spirit dragons. In fact, the scent is heady, almost enticing.

The man doesn’t even stop to consider his choice of seating, just walks straight up to the bar and sits one stool away from Hanzo, rapping at the counter with a knuckle that sounds too harsh for that hand to be flesh. Prosthetic then. 

Hanzo refrains from sighing at himself. He is building a profile for this stranger out of habit, which is _not_ what he came here to do. His old tutors would’ve snapped a _bokken_ across his back by now for his inability to focus. 

Bartender grunts again, throwing out a tumbler and filling it with whiskey, pushing it towards the latest customer. Regular enough to know his order, then. Hanzo relaxes just slightly at the confirmation that this stranger isn’t someone new. 

The bartender turns to Hanzo, gesturing to his empty glass. Hanzo nods once, barely pushing the glass closer so the man can refill it before he moves away. 

“A mighty fine choice there, partner,” the stranger sitting beside him says. Hanzo finally lets himself look. 

Abruptly, he wishes he hadn't. His stomach swoops in instant attraction, just from meeting a set of warm, honey brown eyes under the shade of a bullet-lined Stetson. 

Stranger's wide mouth (and what a mouth it is-- a full bottom lip, slightly thinner upper lip) is stretched into a sinful, crooked grin, revealing sharp canines. 

His beard is unkempt, but it works for his strong-jawed, American Movie Star Face. Rather, it makes him seem rugged, especially with the rusty film of dust clinging to his golden-tan skin and the brilliant red _serape_ settled on broad shoulders. He must've ridden here on a bike. Hanzo tries not to think of that too much. 

"Never seen you 'round here before," the man continues, not even being subtle about the way his eyes slowly, appreciatively, travel the length of Hanzo's body. Hanzo can feel the path his molten gaze takes, lighting upon his skin not unlike the way his dragons shift just underneath the surface. "Think I might've remembered you if I had."

Hanzo keeps his mouth firmly pressed together, meeting the stranger's gaze steadily. 

"Joel Morricone," the man says, holding his hand out in greeting. 

Hanzo glances at it before turning back to his whiskey, downing a large gulp. 

"Alright," Joel says amiably, his twang undeniably charming. His voice rumbles with a laugh. "I can take a hint."

Viciously squashing the disappointment burgeoning within him, Hanzo stares at the various bottles lining the back of the wall behind the bar. 

Pride. Honor. Whatever keeps his back ramrod straight, even in these circumstances… His reasons for refusal sound flimsy at best, like the strawberry cake in the middle-class bakery. 

A bottle of Jim Beam stares at him, judging him for all the choices that brought him here. 

Joel takes a small sip of his drink in his peripheral vision, his thickly muscled forearm drawing Hanzo’s gaze. Hanzo grits his teeth together. He has to consciously keep his leg from bouncing up and down in place. 

As Genji would have said, what seems a lifetime ago, ' _fuck_ it'. 

He knocks back the rest of his drink and slams the tumbler on the bar, turning to Joel, who lifts his head at the noise. 

"Shiro," he grouses, voice rough from a long period of disuse. 

Joel's mouth curls into something warm, something that sends a tendril of aching want right into Hanzo's gut. Joel bites that full bottom lip with those coyote teeth, eyes roving over Hanzo's face now that he's allowed. 

"Shiro, then," he answers, his own body turning towards Hanzo's in mirrored interest. "Passin' through, Shiro?" 

"Very briefly," Hanzo answers, vaguely wondering if his father would seize in his grave if Hanzo were to cut this short and just ask the cowboy back to his room without further delay. 

"Y'like it out here?" Joel asks, and Hanzo barks out a short laugh without really meaning to. How does one come to _like_ the stretching void of a desert-- too hot in the day, too cold in the night? 

"I like it more now," he answers. 

Joel laughs in turn, a set of deep, staccato bursts that Hanzo wouldn't mind hearing more of.

"Well, _darlin',_ " he says, ringing color up to Hanzo's cheeks with just a _word,_ "I've been around these parts plenty, but I'm afraid I've never seen a sight prettier'n you."

Hanzo presses his lips together to keep himself from smiling.

"Does that work for many people, Mr. Morricone?"

"Ain't never said it to anyone else before," he says, leaning back slightly in his chair before his mouth turns sly. "Why? Did it work for you?"

He's about to respond when the door bursts open and Joel glances over. He must see something he doesn't like because he sighs, eyes rolling to the side like he's done with the day. 

"Can't even goddamn…" he mutters, the rest of the sentence trailing off unintelligibly as he pushes himself up to his _spurred_ feet. Hanzo’s eyes drop to the cowboy boots and resolutely tries not to think of this burly, hairy man in nothing _but_ the cowboy boots (so help him, God). 

Genji would be rolling around on the floor, _wheezing_ \--

"Well, well, well-- look what we have here," the newcomer says and Hanzo barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

_Americans._

"Why, if it isn't my old friend Diego," Joel replies, his shoulders pulling back. Hanzo had not dismissed the gunpowder smell from earlier. It still lingers on Joel like a second skin, and he's more than positive that there's a well-handled gun under that brightly colored _serape._

"Cut the shit," Diego spits. "You know exactly what I'm here for." 

"Deadlocks sent you?" 

"I mighta gotten a tip," Diego replies, grinning as he reveals his own weapon. “Mighty big bounty ya got there, _Joelly._ ” 

“Some of us are just blessed like that.” Joel looks over at Hanzo and _winks._

It’s _infuriating._

“You sayin’ I ain’t--” 

"Come on, now, Diego. I just wanted to have a drink. Ain't meant to be here much longer. Why don't you just take yourself back on out the door where y'came from, buddy? Give me a little peace."

"'Fraid I can't do that," Diego says, though he sounds far from aggrieved. 

Hanzo feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, lets himself glance into the mirror behind the bar. 

Loud Biker Group has been quiet for too long, and Hanzo confirms their involvement with this... Diego... as he sees them in the reflection. Too many hands near too many hips for Hanzo's taste. 

He could leave without being noticed, Hanzo is sure. But he is, quite frankly, _irritated._ It's been a long time since he's felt even a marginal attraction to someone, and longer still since he's let his guard down enough to sate his desires. Joel had been flirting with him, and he had been flirting back, _damn_ them all. 

Scowling down at his empty glass, he takes advantage of the bartender's distraction to grab the whiskey he's set on the counter, pouring himself another finger. He keeps his eyes on Joel, who has also noticed the biker gang gearing up for a fight. He does not seem too worried, just aggravated-- another kindred spirit found in this awful corner of the world.

The conversation dies down as the standoff starts. Hanzo almost wishes he had a camera, if only because Genji… _would’ve_ found this amusing. 

“If anyone wants outta here that don’t have no business here,” Diego announces to the room at large, “I suggest you make your way on out.” 

The cacophony of several chairs scraping the floor, followed by multiple sets of booted feet tapping away, breaks through the music still piddling on with its inability to read the room. Hanzo stands less frantically, drawing his bag up with him. Joel’s mouth turns down as Hanzo passes him, though the man has little reason to think Hanzo would stay. They don’t know each other. He is owed nothing. 

The air outside, _of course,_ is colder than it should be. 

Hanzo drops to his knees. 

There is little at his decrepit motel room that could warm him so thoroughly as the cowboy he’d left in the bar. Thinking about spending another night alone, especially in a place as quiet as this one, sucks what little warmth he has left in him. 

Besides, they had been in the middle of a conversation (and a _drink)_ and it had been _rude_ to be interrupted when Hanzo had already gotten his hopes up. Even the smallest promise of a body next to his had left him aching, especially with someone who had looked at Hanzo like he was something he wanted to _consume._

With a quiet click, his case opens, and it takes little to assemble his arrows into his quiver, to sling his quiver over his shoulder, to stand and test the give of his string. He nocks an arrow and re-enters the bar at his own pace.

Predictably, everyone is still in a stand-off. 

Diego makes a frustrated noise at the tip of his teeth as he turns to the sound of the door opening again. 

" _Now_ what is it--” is what he gets out before Hanzo’s arrow lodges itself into his tiny brain via his eye socket. His body thumps to the floor just as the song in the jukebox fades into silence. There’s nothing but the muted clanking of the record changing to something new in the sudden stillness. 

Hanzo looks from Diego’s body up to Morricone, meeting his look of shock with a steady gaze. 

Joel’s eyebrows drop from surprise into something arch, his grin stretching his mouth wide. 

“Oh,” he drawls, “that’ll do _fine._ ” 

The bar _explodes_ into chaos.


End file.
